Page 46 of Little Stranger

Well, this is relaxing. Usually I’m in this position and trying to fight the urge to touch her. But since that’s already been covered, I can just… relax.

Olivia’s skin has always been soft, a few freckles dusting her shoulders, and I kiss each one of them while I wash her, soaking her hair and reaching for her strawberry-scented shampoo. I love the way her hair feels between my fingers, the way the shampoo lathers in my hands as I clean it.

I use her sponge on her arms and legs, and she whimpers as I drop it between her thighs and wipe away the evidence of me fucking her. I kiss her throat, feeling her pulse beneath my lips, before wrapping my arms around her.

Once I get her dried and into a pair of her silky PJs, I tuck her into bed and kiss her forehead, pulling the covers up to her chin. I stroke her hair, rubbing it between my fingers. It’s a bit wet—I could only dry so much of it with the towel before I got fed up.

I clean the tub with a cloth, mop up our cum and the water from the floor, and make sure the small mat is exactly where it was before I fucked her on it. Hands to my hips, I tilt my head and look at the fluffy thing. Was it straighter? Will she realize it’s been moved?

Huffing, I turn off the light and head to the kitchen, pausing when I see all the dishes in the sink. My eyes roll before I rinse them off then fill her dishwasher and turn it on. I fix her apple stack, straighten out her mugs, then chew my lip as I glance around for anything else I might have messed with prior to her being drugged.

I already cleaned up the wine, but there’s still a little stain on her carpet, so I get on my hands and knees and scrub at it until it’s unidentifiable.

I empty the filter in her coffee machine, then empty her trashcan and tie the bag, leaving it by the door for me to take when I leave.

Really, where would she be without me?

Olivia is still asleep when I get back to her room, and I yawn and drop onto the bed beside her, exhausted from tidying up after fucking her.

I grab her phone, unlock it with her finger, and swipe through her photos. There’s nothing new, but then I accidentally scroll back to her albums and find one labelled “M” that appears to be locked.

I unlock it with her thumbprint, and loads of images and videos pop up of me, us, the family who raised us, and I spend the next hour swiping through them. She was always taking pictures or recording me. She even has pictures of newspaper clippings from my arrest, the headline that my sister testified, that I nearly broke my lawyer’s face when he told me Olivia had turned her back on me.

I didn’t hold back when she was in that witness box—my interpreter translated everything I signed. I let the world know how much of a whore my sister was, how she was always on her knees for me, that Mom sold her virginity, fucking everything, but I was silenced and labelled as a madman, though I refused to plead insanity.

Those few days of the trial were like a blur. I was so mad at Olivia, but I do kinda regret letting it all out. Not that anyone believed me—again, madman and all. But what we had was real. We fucked, maybe in a little bit of a messy situation, but we’d covered all boundaries, and I was fully prepared to tell everyone what she meant to me, but then the cops came, and it ended.

I waited for her in that cell—day after day. But it’s okay now, because I’m here.

I grin as I shut off her phone and stare at the ceiling, my hand behind my head. Despite everything, I got to have sex with my sister again. It only took nearly a fucking decade.

Turning on my side, I open her drawer and pull out her journal. Total invasion of privacy, but it allows me to see into her head without needing to split open her skull and inspect her brain with a magnifying glass.

She touches a lot on sexual activity—how inactive she is, which makes me smile. After tonight, we are officially actively fucking, my sweet Olivia. I’ll be doing this every single night now. She came all over my cock, whimpered my name, and moaned, so she definitely liked it.

What kind of a brother would I be if I didn’t give her more?

A few times, she’s mentioned the guy across the street—me by the way. She writes about watching me, wondering what I look like without my helmet, and once, she wrote she thinks it could be me but quickly backtracked, because if it was me, surely the last thing I’d be doing is living across the street and giving her space—if it was me—then she’d probably be dead.

Ridiculous—I don’t want to kill her; I want to crush her. There’s a difference.

She wants to gather enough courage to talk to the biker. She wants to give him her number and somehow ask him out. Which, again, is fucking hilarious and annoys the shit out of me, because she has no idea who he is. He could be a ninety-year-old man or have a face covered in warts, or worse, the biker could look like that fuckwit Parker.

In her recent journal entries, she talks about being lonely and that the marriage Mom’s set up terrifies her. She doesn’t find her future husband attractive from all the photos Mom emailed her and thinks he’ll most likely cheat on her like her brother did.

Firstly, I didn’t cheat. And secondly, we weren’t in a relationship either. I was her secret little fuckboy; someone she could teach what she loved.

My eyes fall on the stack of letters I wrote to her—she has them strapped together with a rubber band in the drawer. Some of them are severely crumpled. As if she’s gotten mad and scrunched them up, only to try flattening them once again.

I drop her journal and pull the top one out and unravel it. It’s the first one I ever sent her. I read over it, shaking my head at my idiotic younger self.

Words like “missing you” and “I didn’t think it was possible to be without you, and now there’s a huge wall between us” and “will you visit me? I’m sorry for yelling at court” and my least favorite, a very dark time for me, “I’m not comfortable around these people. They call me a weirdo like the kids at school did because I won’t talk. Please don’t leave me in here,” yet she didn’t reply, even when my letters grew more desperate. No reply. Not to this letter, or the one after, or the fifty-odd after that.

I even begged her in some of these letters, demanding to know why she hadn’t come to see me, if I’d done something wrong. I was in a state of confusion for so long, wondering—no, calculating—what error I’d made in the last few years.

I even told her, in a very messy letter—one of my last—that I had no idea how to control the way I felt about her, and that if I had got her pregnant, I’d step up even though I had no idea how to be a good father, that if she’d visit with my son or daughter, let me see them, I’d do better.

She didn’t reply to that one either.

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